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My
WORST experience with
the spirit world.....
My
first contribution is a story about the most frightening experience
of my life (so far!) It's a ghost story that has the added dimension
of being TRUE!
Some years ago I was in a somewhat popular folk-band that managed
to secure a Summer's work at a folk club in Cornwall.
The six of us were given the keys to an old cottage in the village
of Perranuthnoe, near St Michael's Mount, in which to stay.
After a few weeks, the owner of the club was so pleased with our efforts
that he gave us an evening off: he suggested a barbecue and provided
us with crates of beer and some chops and sausages to cook on the
fire.
As dusk approached we walked through the old wooden gate of the cottage,
straight onto the shallow, sandy beach. The tide was out and there
was the beginnings of a sea mist. The lead singer, Bob and I walked
casually down to the water's edge, while John, the other guitarist,
and our three girlfriends remained to tend the fire. It was Bob (a
six foot six tall man who was frightened of nothing) who first spotted
the figures: there, at the edge of the mist were three barely discernible
outlines wading knee-deep, parallel to the shoreline.
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Bob
and I squatted down together. Could they be smugglers? Some other
band of desperate criminals, up to no good on this isolated fore-shore?
As the trio drew level with us, they seemed for the first time to
become aware of our presence: they turned towards us. It was at this
moment that I shook Bob's arm and whispered hoarsely "They're not
making a wake, Bob!" And indeed, the three figures approached the
beach without the slightest disturbance of the water through which
they were apparently wading. Suddenly the ravelling mist swirled and
cleared: for the first time we could see the figures plainly at perhaps
twenty metres range……..That sight will haunt my dreams for the rest
of my life: the three 'men' (though they hardly deserved the appellation)
can only be described as having the appearance of rotting corpses.
Their empty eye-sockets stared vacantly towards the beach, while shreds
of skin and flesh hung from their emaciated frames.
Someone screamed….it could have been Bob or I: it doesn't matter…..The
sound galvanised the pair of us. We turned and ran up the beach, past
the flaring driftwood fire and into the house. From behind us
we heard gasps of horror, and the panic-stricken footsteps of our
companions.
That night was spent in sleepless terror of what we had seen only
too well on the deserted beach. The doors were locked and barricaded
with furniture, but none of us dare surrender to sleep. As the
first light of day spread from the East, we summoned the courage firstly
to peep through the thickly-curtained windows, then to open the door
and venture outside. John and I had abandoned our acoustic guitars
in our rush from the beach. The neck of John's £300 Epiphone
was warped and twisted beyond repair by the chill sea-mists: it somehow
didn't seem to matter.
Later that day the club-owner dropped by. " Did you have a good evening,
boys and girls?" he enquired
" Not...disturbed at all?"
We finished the Summer season and went on to further musical success….but,
by common consent, that night on the beach at Perranuthnoe was never
discussed by any of us……….
As I said at the beginning: this IS a true story!
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